


The Three-Body Problem

by CloudAtlas



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amputee Bucky Barnes, Awesome Peggy Carter, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Friendship, Gay Bucky Barnes, Light Angst, Light Dom/sub, Multi, Oblivious Steve Rogers, Open Relationships, POV Peggy Carter, Past Character Death, Polyamory, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Relationship Negotiation, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-09-29 22:53:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17212373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudAtlas/pseuds/CloudAtlas
Summary: No single equation can predict how three bodies will move in relation to one another and whether their orbits will repeat or devolve into chaos.





	The Three-Body Problem

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lorax](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lorax/gifts).



> Lorax, I hope you enjoy this! I've wanted to write World War Threesome for a while now and I'm super pleased to have been given the chance.
> 
> An imaginative debt is owed in this fic to [Watching Him Fall](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4221) by facetofcathy (SPN RPS, J2D). The basic premise is the same here, though all the major components are different. Thank you to **inkvoices** for beta. Title from physics and classical mechanics (via Liu Cixin, ofc), summary from [New Scientist](https://www.newscientist.com/article/2148074-infamous-three-body-problem-has-over-a-thousand-new-solutions/).
> 
>  
> 
> cw: In this fic, Peggy and Daniel Sousa were married but Daniel developed cancer and died. While all this happens before the events of this story, this loss influences Peggy a lot. So if this is difficult for you, please proceed with caution.

_On this day, two years ago_ , Peggy thinks, _Daniel Sousa died_. It won’t make any of the history books. He was, in the grand scheme of things, an unremarkable human being with an unremarkable life. But not to her.

On this day, two years ago, at 11:37 EST, Daniel Sousa finally lost his long battle with cancer.

Peggy turns over in bed to stare at the ceiling. Two years. Two years and she’s doing okay. She never planned to be a widow aged twenty-eight, but she’s _doing okay_. So she’s going to go to work today, like any other weekday, and when she gets home she’ll ring her folks and then Dan’s folks and have a good cry.

Wait, no. She needs to ring her folks now. It’ll be – she looks over at her alarm clock. 07:57. Shit.

She’s gonna be late for work.

 

Peggy calls her folks as she walks to catch the A train, taking a moment to pause in Isham Park to breathe because her dad has taken the day off work and her mum is working from home today just so they’d both be free whenever she called. Peggy regrets very few things about following Dan to America after uni, but at very top of the list is that it means she’s so far from her family. (Actually, no. Top of the list is the fact that if she and Dan had stayed in the UK, Dan may well still have died of cancer but at least Luis and Anna Sousa wouldn’t be in _massive amounts of debt_ because the healthcare system of this country is _fucking criminal_.)

Her pause in Isham Park causes her to nearly miss her train but it at least makes her feel more equipped to face the day. Her dad always knows just what to say to make her feel steadier, and the familiarity of the overcrowded A train into Harlem goes a long way to making this feel like just another day. And it’s just as well really, because while Peggy absolutely adores her new job – research into improved strategies for disenfranchised urban youth in partnership with a small but very successful Harlem charity called Guiding Lights – it comes with one major stumbling block she wasn’t even remotely prepared for.

“Mornin’ Peggy,” Malcolm says as she pushes open the door to Guiding Lights. “You doin’ okay?”

Peggy smooths her hair, taming it back from the tangle the wind has made of it. “Oh, you know, as well as expected.”

She hasn’t told Malcolm about Dan. She hasn’t really told anyone at her new job about Dan apart from Nakia, who proved why she’s the project leader by being sympathetic and understanding without it feeling cloying in the slightest. So Malcolm simply assumes Peggy’s referring to the always horrible New York commute, which is always worth commiserating over, and grins at her.

“Sam was looking for you,” Malcolm continues as they walk towards the staffroom, “and also – ”

“Hey Peggy!”

The voice comes from the office they just passed and that’s it. That’s him.

Peggy turns to face her stumbling block.

Guiding Lights supports a majority non-white population in Harlem so apart from Peggy, who’s really only here for a _relatively_ short period of time on this so-long-that-it’s-a-wonder-it-ever-got-funded research project, the only other white member of staff is one Steve Rogers who, despite being five foot five in shoes and so skinny she sometimes worries that if he turns sideways he’ll just disappear, kind of stands out. For the obvious reasons, yes, but also because out of all the – admittedly above-average looking – staff, Peggy is drawn to him in a way she that finds honestly alarming.

He’s just… _decent_ , which as an observation is actually incredibly unfair to the rest of Guiding Lights’ staff. Sam Wilson, Claire Temple, Melinda May, Luke Cage, and Misty Knight are all fundamentally good people; kind, patient, and always wanting the best for all the kids that walk through their door. Steve though, Steve is somehow more than that, at least to Peggy. He’s stubborn and angry and optimistic and slightly irreverent, and Peggy doesn’t _want_ to feel like she’s betraying Dan’s memory by liking him so much, but she kind of does. It’s a feeling she doesn’t enjoy, despite the fact that Steve makes her feel more alive than anything else has since Dan died. And they aren’t even _dating_ ; they aren’t really _anything_ other than colleagues who genuinely enjoy each other’s company.

Peggy also doesn’t _want_ to feel like a teenager around him, but she does nonetheless.

“Morning Steve.” She’s not sure she’s successful in hiding the joy in her voice but she pushes on regardless. If there’s anyone who can make her feel better about today – that she can actually _see in person_ , because her folks, and Luis and Anna, will always win – it’s going to be Steve. “What’s up?”

Steve grins, pushing his rolling chair away from the ancient PC they use for admin and adjusting his glasses on his face. “Devonte and Meche will be coming in after school – they’re applying to college!” Steve is honestly so thrilled by every millimetre of progress the kids here make, “And both have agreed to talk to either you or Nakia.”

“And I’m getting a crash course in current procedures with Misty,” Malcolm cuts in from behind her, “so whoever doesn’t end up talking to Devonte and Meche will be going out with Sam and Claire to do house calls.”

Peggy loves doing house calls, but it was agreed early on that Nakia and Malcolm are both better choices for that. Nakia is a local girl made good; Malcolm had a childhood comparable to the worst sob stories Guiding Lights can provide. In contrast, Peggy is a white British posh girl. Earning the trust of the kids who regularly turn up here is the best use of her skills, leaving Malcolm and Nakia to work with the actual outreach programmes.

“I’ll talk to them,” Peggy says, moving to dump her bags in the staffroom next door. Steve follows her, propping himself up against the doorframe. Malcolm hovers behind him, watching with the amused air of an over-invested older brother. “Nakia and Malcolm do the outreach, remember Steve?”

The one good thing about losing the opportunity to do the outreach programmes is that Steve doesn’t do them often either, so Peggy has a legitimate, workplace reason to spend the day with him.

Malcolm gives her a significant look over Steve’s head, which Peggy pointedly ignores.

“Cool. You’ll be with Luke first thing though,” Steve replies with another wide smile and something in Peggy swoops in disappointment, though she ruthlessly keeps her expression pleasant. “There’s a whole thing with CPS happening today. I’ll be in the office.” He jerks his thumb in the direction of the room he just left. “Send Nakia through when she arrives, yeah?”

“Sure thing, Steve.”

Steve returns to the office after giving Peggy one last blinding grin, leaving her caught in the staffroom with Malcolm and his judging eyebrows.

“That was embarrassing. I’m embarrassed _for_ you.”

Peggy digs out her box of Yorkshire Tea, specially sent over by her parents, and busies herself making a cup. The fact that she does this every morning is the only reason it isn’t _entirely_ transparent that she’s using it as a means to avoid Malcolm’s eyes.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” she says primly.

Malcolm just snorts.

 

Peggy knows a surprising amount about Steve, considering they’ve only really known each other for a month.

She knows he has no living family, his father having died in the Gulf War when he was a baby and his mother from complications from TB when he was twenty. She knows he went to NYU to study sociology and psychology. She knows he paints and sketches in his spare time.

She knows he lives in Brooklyn with his roommate Bucky, who was in a really bad accident of some kind five or so years ago. She knows all about the apparently never ending saga that is his friend Natasha's attempts to do up her house in Brooklyn, a saga that took a turn for the unexpected when she started dating the guy who fitted her kitchen. Steve finds this hilarious, because Clint Barton is apparently a hot mess while Natasha is two years into realising her dream of setting up her very own – _critically acclaimed_ – dance company called Red Room Theatre.

She knows Steve’s views on gun control, the military industrial complex, the US prison system, institutional racism, and the Affordable Care Act – which was, unsurprisingly, the first real discussion the two of them had, despite the fact that Peggy never actually revealed _why_ she has such strong opinions on it. She also knows of his love of Star Trek, all things Aaron Sorkin, and his pet project of trying to trace his family back to Europe, as well as everything he’s learnt about translation, publication, and freelancing by osmosis from Bucky. Hell, she even knows that Bucky writes sci-fi short stories as a hobby, though none of them have been published yet.

She knows Steve’s not married and she’s fairly sure he’s not in a relationship though she’s not brave enough to ask, partially because, while he’s kind and friendly and really interesting to talk to, he doesn’t give off the usual signs of being _interested_.

And yet, when, two weeks later, he invites Peggy out to a bar so she can meet Bucky, her traitorous heart skips a beat because: _maybe_.

 

Peggy tells herself she’s not going to make an effort when the day finally comes around, but she knows she’s failed when the first words out of Malcolm’s mouth are, “Looking good, English!”

Jury’s still out, but Peggy’s definitely working on the assumption that Malcolm is _The Worst_.

It’s just a smart shirt. Sure, it’s silky, which is unusual for her, but it’s still just a shirt. And ankle boots instead of Converse – “Chucks,” she hears Dan say, like she always does. “You’re in America now. They’re Chucks.” – which might be the reason Malcolm commented, actually. She’s only ever worn Converse on this job, because she’s on her feet so much. In fact, there’s a spare pair in her staff locker from that time a taxi decided it was totally okay to drive through a puddle and literally soak her on the way to work. She’d had to go out and buy a whole new set of clothes that day. It was either that or freeze to death, because obviously that was the week the heating decided to crap out. Guiding Lights might be an amazing charity, but it’s still just a charity. The building isn’t that great.

Peggy makes the executive decision to change her shoes before she sees Steve.

They’re meeting Bucky at a bar about two blocks down from Guiding Lights. It’s a place all Guiding Lights’ staff end up at some point so Peggy’s been before, with Sam and Luke and Luke’s ex Jessica, and with Misty, Claire, and Nakia for a girl’s night Malcolm complained about being excluded from. So she knows Billy Jean’s (oh yes, they went there) well enough that she’s paying more attention to Steve than to her surroundings as they enter the bar.

“And of course, it’s not as if they care about funding to help poor non-white kids, right? So we’d just about had enough and Luke was all ready to go punch some heads in when Misty – Buck! Hey!”

For a moment, Peggy can’t see who it is Steve’s waving at as they’re separated by some banker-type guys exiting the bar, but then they move and Peggy’s eyes are caught by a good-looking guy sat at the bar. And when Peggy says good-looking, she _means_ good-looking. Intellectually, Peggy knows that to most people, soaked as they are in Hollywood standards of beauty, Steve and Dan would be classed as cute at best. But this guy – and it must be Bucky, because there’s clear recognition in his face – is bordering on Hollywood hot.

He’s not _necessarily_ Peggy’s type, but Jesus.

He’s in tight jeans, a white t-shirt, and a leather jacket, sitting like he _knows_ he looks good, and Steve walks right up to him and –

And kisses him on the mouth.

It feels like someone has filled her body with ice and she freezes in place, a reaction that only goes unnoticed by Steve and Bucky – _who is Steve’s boyfriend apparently_ – thanks to the miraculous appearance of a group of women who stream in from the street intent on getting their much deserved post-work drink.

It figures – _it fucking figures_ – that literally the only guy she’s been interested in since Dan died is in a fucking relationship. Abruptly, Peggy wants to cry and cry and cry, because it’s so supremely unfair. At this rate, she’s never going to fall in love with anyone who doesn’t end up hurting her somehow. And she will never in a million years regret anything about her marriage, but _Christ_ , it hurt.

And now here’s Steve, who doesn’t even know he’s stomped all over her heart.

 _Christ woman_ , she thinks fiercely _, pull yourself together_. She’s not _in love_ with Steve. That would be ridiculous; she’s known him two months. But, God, it would be so easy. She’s done it once, she knows the steps; the dance familiar despite being different. But she can’t, now, because somehow she missed the fact that roommate Bucky was not, in fact, a roommate.

Even trawling back through her memory for all Steve’s mentions of Bucky, she can’t bring up a single moment when he said anything that suggested Bucky was anything other than a friend. Not that she can remember. Regardless, Angie would be very disappointed in her heteronormative thinking.

“Hey, you must be Peggy,” definitely-Bucky says with a grin. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

It takes up to this moment for Peggy to register that Bucky only has a right arm, the left sleeve of his jacket carefully tailored to cover everything down to the elbow. And then there’s just air.

“Hi,” she replies, proud of herself for how steady her voice sounds, how tightly she has control of the expressions of her face, so she only looks friendly and not devastated. “I could say the same about you.”

Bucky’s smile is boyish and endlessly charming. “Only good things, I hope.”

Steve grins and rolls his eyes at her, as if they’re in on some grand joke. “Not even remotely,” he cuts in, his tone teasing. “It’s not like your ego needs any more help.”

Bucky waps Steve with his stump and Steve’s grin almost threatens to split in face in half.

“Fucker,” Bucky says, but his voice is fond, and Peggy suddenly needs to escape, right the fuck now.

“Here.” She digs out her purse from her bag, pulling out ten dollars and handing the note to Steve. “Get me a red wine, yeah? I just need to go to the bathroom. Be back in a sec.”

Peggy doesn’t quite flee, but it’s a close call.

The bathroom is empty when she arrives, so she takes a couple of seconds to just stare at her reflection. She looks spooked, her eyes wide. Her hair is coming out of its bun after eight or so hours of being pinned up. There are wisps of hair framing her face. Dan used to curl his fingers around them, tugging on them before tickling her under her ear just to hear her squeal. She always fell for it, she never learned.

She breaks eye contact with herself when she starts to feel the prick of tears, instead locking herself into a stall to get herself under control in a semblance of privacy. No one wants to be the creepy person crying in a bar bathroom.

Christ, the first guy she’s liked since Dan and he’s taken. And that would be _fine_ if the revelation hadn’t come so late, but she was already half-way there before this happened. This was always going to hurt. And by all accounts Bucky seems like a nice guy, not that she’s actually talked to him yet. But Steve had seemed thrilled to see him, and Bucky had seemed happy to see Steve so…

Okay, okay.

Peggy has literally years of practice in hiding the fact that her heart is slowly breaking. She managed to _go to work_ the day after Dan was told his cancer was back and this time there was nothing they could do. She’s a fucking pro at this.

Peggy takes a deep breath, smoothes her silkier-than-normal top reflexively, unlocks the bathroom stall and heads back to the bar.

Steve has her wine waiting for her, because of course he does, and the smile he gives her when handing it over hits her somewhere in the chest, just as she expected it to.

The kicker is, though, that it turns out that Bucky is just as good a guy as she’d suspected. He’s witty and intelligent and has a way with words that makes every anecdote he tells about asshole publishers and meddling authors hysterical – a natural storyteller. Peggy can’t help but like the way he can make Steve laugh so easily, but she also can’t help the way she almost unconsciously turns towards Steve. Bucky’s a great guy, sure, but he’s not the reason she’s here. It feels almost masochistic, how attuned she is to Steve and his infectious air of contentment even manages to sooth her frazzled emotions somewhat, though she knows that as soon as she leaves everything will come rushing back in.

Part of her wants to stay, just to stave off the inevitable, but that too would be masochistic and she still has to work with Steve so when he excuses himself to go to the bathroom Peggy decides to bite the bullet and just leave. Steve will be hurt, but she’s at the point where selfishness and self-care intersect and she knows that Steve will understand that, if nothing else.

But there’s still Bucky, who’s looking at her with an expression she’s not sure how to parse.

“I think I should go.”

Bucky tips his head to one side, a little like a curious dog. His expression is beginning to unsettle her, like he knows more of what’s going on here than she does.

“Is that what you want?”

It’s so far from what she was expecting him to say that she feels caught short. She’d offered the perfect out to a man smart enough to work out that she’s crushing on his boyfriend, and instead of taking it he… She’s not even sure _what_ Bucky’s done, to be honest. Can’t work out what his motivations are here. Very briefly, she considers bluffing – _what do you mean?_ – but Peggy’s not stupid and, clearly, neither is Bucky, and she’s not going to disrespect either of them by pretending. So instead she shrugs and, with what she knows is a small bittersweet smile, meets his eyes and simply says, “I don’t think I can get what I want here.”

Peggy can’t guess what Bucky’s thinking, though she can see understanding in his face, as well as caution and sympathy and regret and possessiveness and a myriad of other emotions too fleeting to put a name to. But he doesn’t say anything else, only holds her gaze a moment longer before dropping to look at the beer in his hand.

She nods, once, and reaches for her bag, but of course that’s when Steve reappears, his entire face lighting up as soon as he lays eyes on them by the bar. It’s funny, in a sad sort of way, how Peggy can see Bucky perk back up, just as she has. As if they’re plants and Steve’s water, or sunlight, or some other life-giving essential. But of course, of the two of them, it’s Bucky who can reach out to touch, his beer momentarily wedged between his thighs so he can clasp Steve’s shoulder.

They only talk for about twenty minutes more, Peggy’s decision to leave hanging heavy on her shoulders, and eventually she makes her goodbyes – _so nice to meet you, another time maybe?, see you at work_ – and makes her retreat.

She tries not to feel like she’s going home to lick her wounds, but she’s not enormously successful.

 

A year after Peggy and Dan had got married, they’d decided that one honeymoon wasn’t quite enough. And, as they were both fortunate enough to have well paid and flexible jobs, they’d decided a second honeymoon was entirely reasonable and shelled out a rather large sum of money to travel around South East Asia for six weeks. It resulted in many cases of terrible food poisoning, lots of uncomfortable sunburn, and some of the happiest memories of Peggy’s life.

Peggy’s favourite photo of her and Dan was taken on that trip, the two of them giddy and peeling on a junk tour in Ha Long Bay. It sits on her bedside table. She’d stopped feeling stupid about talking to it about three weeks after Dan’s funeral.

“The kicker is, you’d like Steve,” she whispers, tracing the familiar lines of sunburn on Dan’s face with her eyes. “And Bucky too. Or…”

She trails off. She’s not sure Dan _would_ like Bucky actually. Or at least, Dan and Bucky would likely never be friends. Bucky’s too comfortable in himself, she thinks. Dan never really got used to the loss of his leg, the biggest casualty of his first battle with cancer, but Bucky’s so casual in regards to his missing arm. It would have made Dan self-conscious, and Dan got snippy when he was self-conscious. Too long in Bucky’s presence and they’d probably descend into unfriendly jibes, made all the worse by Bucky’s teasing tone and the flirty, confident shell Peggy could see even after only an evening in his company.

She can imagine it _so clearly_. She can imagine her and Steve trying to keep the peace. The buffer they would provide between their other halves. How Dan and Bucky would try, if only for Steve and Peggy, and how, eventually, a truce would be called; each person’s roles defined and worn smooth and comfortable. If Dan were alive, Peggy knows, they would become Uncle Steve and Uncle Bucky as soon as kids happened. They would be the kind of friends who’d holiday together, spend Thanksgiving and Christmas together, babysit each other’s kids. The first people to call in an emergency, the first people to inform of good news.

If Dan were alive, her feelings would manifest differently. Steve would be a friend and nothing more. There wouldn’t be a gap to fill, because Dan would be filling it, as he had for nearly ten years.

But Dan isn’t alive.

“Is that what you want?” Bucky had asked. And of course it fucking wasn’t, Peggy hadn’t wanted to _leave_. Steve Rogers is magnetic and Bucky must know that from first-hand experience. That five foot five skinny body somehow so beautiful to Peggy because it contains _Steve_ , his opinions on Star Trek and High Court appointments, and all the love and care he exhibits for these children who have been kicked to the curb one too many times.

She’d spent her subway ride home in a strange, disassociated state that was distressingly familiar, her conscious mind zoning out while somewhere deep in the back of her head she tried to process what had happened and how to manage her reactions; damage control, building up _façades_ , making plans of action.

Peggy’s good at hiding her feelings when she needs to, a skill that was honed during Dan’s illness because she couldn’t fall apart at work and she’d needed to put on a brave face for Dan, and equally she couldn’t just cry on public transport every morning.

It makes her feel a little like a spy, hiding all their secrets. It’s also made her realise just how fucked up being a spy must make people. James Bond should be getting so much therapy, is all she’s saying.

She hasn’t done that in a while – James Bond might not get therapy but she certainly did – but she’s sure Dr Foster would understand, filing it under extenuating circumstances.

God, she wishes Dan were here.

She turns onto her back, stares at the ceiling. For a brief moment she imagines being able to reach out and touch Steve; curl her hand around his bony shoulder, press her palm against his ribs. He wouldn’t be hard against her like Dan was, all muscle and taut skin: he’d be bones pressed too close to the surface, large hands and pointy elbows.

She’d be taller. She’d have to bend down to kiss him.

But then her mind conjures up the image of _Bucky’s_ hand curled around Steve’s elbow, and the fantasy comes crashing down.

She has two options here; back off, or attempt to become the Other Woman. Only, she doesn’t have two options, because there is no way on earth Steve would be the cheating type. _She’s_ not the cheating type. And she’s not a homewrecker. So she has only one option, realistically.

She looks over at the photo of her and Dan again. She was so happy that day. She was so happy married to Dan, even at the end, even when it was bad. Eventually, she’ll find that happiness again.

Just not with Steve.

 

Of course, seeing as she _works_ with Steve, there’s a limit to how much avoidance is actually achievable, and she doesn’t actually want to be _rude_. But she stops having lunch with him, always finding an excuse to be somewhere else. She checks in with the university, offers to organise all the information collected so far – which means she holes herself up at the local library rather than suffer through all the interruptions that occur trying to do work in Guiding Lights’ office, and has Luke give her a full rundown of the programmes and processes Guiding Lights currently runs and operates under. It’s all legitimate work and it would all have to be done at some point, Peggy just makes sure it’s all done _now_.

But after a week her luck – and the Steve-avoiding tasks – runs out.

Steve has been giving her increasingly concerned looks every time they cross paths, but this morning he looks distracted, and she feels his gaze lingering on her in a way it hasn’t before. She’s not sure what it means, but she’s eight hours away from her weekend off and she’s hopeful she can put it off until next week.

But, of course, it doesn’t work out that way.

Steve corners her in the staffroom as she’s getting ready to leave. Well, ‘corners’ is perhaps too strong a term; he stands in the doorway, barring her exit, and Peggy is surprised enough that she stops dead when she sees him. She’d thought she was the last one left to leave. She’d been rehearsing the combination for the alarm in her head.

There’s something off in how Steve holds himself. When she’d thought about the inevitability of this moment, Peggy had expected him to be accusing, or at least demanding of an explanation, but instead, like this morning, he’s staring at her with an expression she can’t quite figure out.

“Bucky said I should talk to you,” Steve says before Peggy can make any move towards speaking. He looks awkward now, and maybe slightly embarrassed, and it takes a moment for his words to register.

 _Bucky said I should talk to you_.

It’s up there with _is that what you want?_ as a statement Peggy doesn’t know how to interpret. It’s like they were all given a script of how these conversations should go and, while Peggy is slavishly following the text to the letter, Bucky gave the entire thing a once over and then tossed it over his shoulder.

Bucky was supposed to take the out she offered, but instead he went home and spoke to Steve and now Steve’s off script too.

“What?”

“He said,” Steve takes a deep breath and meets her eyes, spine straight like he’s bracing for something. “He said if I actually thought about it, I’d work out why. That I’d know. He said he’d be waiting until we’re done.”

“He’s here?” Peggy’s eyes flick almost involuntarily over Steve’s shoulder, as if Bucky’s waiting to step out into the corridor to tell them this is a hilarious prank.

“No.” Steve’s denial is quick. “He’s – at home. He’s waiting at home.”

She stares at him, and he stares back.

“I’ve – I started dating Bucky when I was fifteen,” Steve says. Peggy knows Steve is the same age has her. Steve’s been in a relationship with Bucky for half his life. “He was… there never really was anyone else.” Something in Steve’s posture has relaxed, like he’s made his decision and is going to see it through. That determination, that stubbornness, somehow it makes Peggy relax too. There’s a feeling of inevitability here, though for what she doesn’t know. Somehow that’s comforting.

“He was there when my mom died, I was there when his car crashed. We went to college together. His barista job helped pay for my medication, my Guiding Lights pay helped him set up as a freelance translator.” Steve runs his hands through his hair, leaving it wild to match his eyes. “Peggy, I stopped looking a long time ago. I didn’t need to.”

Peggy’s gripping the strap of her bag too hard. She knows she is. But with her expression ruthlessly on shutdown – almost out of habit – it’s her body’s only way of expressing just how much every word out of Steve’s mouth is throwing her for six.

“You – ”  Steve starts, but Peggy’s harsh inhalation stops him dead.

Suddenly, with an almost hallucinatory clarity, Peggy can see Dan in her mind’s eye. He’s sunburnt and sweaty and on a junk tour in Ha Long Bay. _This could break your heart, Pegs_ , he says. But he’s smiling.

Bucky told Steve to talk to her. Bucky asked if leaving was what she wanted. Bucky doesn’t know her at all, not really, but he does know Steve.

“My husband died just over two years ago,” Peggy says, and she watches as shock wipes every trace of anxiety from Steve’s face. The leather of her bag’s strap creaks, she’s holding it so tight, but her voice is steady. “Cancer. His name was Dan – Daniel Sousa. He was… kind and funny and so, so brave.” She can feel the tears that threaten to spill, and looks to the ceiling in an attempt to keep them at bay. “He would have really, really liked you, Steve.”

The ensuing silence is so complete that Peggy can hear the building’s central heating click off for the night.

“You’re the first person I’ve liked since he died, Steve.”

Saying the words feels like a weight off her shoulders.

There’s another long, pin-drop silence, then: “Holy shit.”

Steve’s words are muffled by his hands, and his eyes are huge – owlish – behind his glasses. He shifts, his body tilting, and he ends up leaning heavily against the doorframe. But even that seems to be too much effort for him and his legs fold under him until he’s sitting on the carpet, half in the room and half out.

Peggy lets go of the strap of her bag, opening her hand wide to ease the ache. She feels too large, somehow, and the fact that she’s practically looming over Steve on the floor doesn’t help, so she forces herself to move, sitting on the scarred and dented coffee table that’s placed in front of the sofa.

“I didn’t know,” Steve says after a moment and Peggy looks over to find Steve is now lying on the floor, his legs in the staffroom and his body in the hallway. “I stopped looking a long time ago. I _didn’t know_.”

“Looking for what?” Peggy asks, her voice quiet. “People who want you or people you want?”

“Both,” Steve says to the hallway ceiling.

Peggy drops her head into her hands. She feels like she’s slipped sideways into the Twilight Zone or something. Like she’s in some terrible avant-garde play which Angie would immediately deride for being both too overdramatic and too pretentious.

But.

Peggy takes this opportunity to look at Steve, lying on the floor. He’s in skinny jeans and Docs. His white t-shirt is too big for him and Peggy suspects it’s actually Bucky’s. He’s wearing a red flannel shirt over the t-shirt, a single leather cuff and his blue Guiding Lights lanyard with his keys on them. He looks like a hipster. He looks like an overdramatic teenager. He looks like someone else’s boyfriend.

She’s suddenly struck by the realisation that Bucky has placed _incredible_ amounts of trust in Steve. She doesn’t want to give any sort of name to what might be happening here, though she’s not sure if it’s because she’s worried that she might jinx it or if it’s because she’s shying away from what’s potentially on offer, but she can see that he trusts Steve to return. Someone else might see it as arrogance, that Bucky’s so sure of Steve that he can… do _this_ , whatever this might turn out to be. But even after meeting Bucky just that once, Peggy’s disinclined to think of it that way.

That being said, Peggy’s really not sure what exactly he was hoping to achieve with this, or why.

“You said Bucky said you should talk to me,” Peggy says, after it’s clear that Steve will happily draw out this silence until he’s worked out whatever is running through his head. “Do you think this is what he meant?”

Steve laughs, a little hysterically, and sits up to look her in the face.

“Yeah,” he says, and his expression is wild and elated and worried all at once. “Yeah, I think it was.”

 

They don’t leave for another hour or so, but if pressed Peggy couldn’t really recall what they talked about after that. All she can remember is Steve locking up, setting the alarm and walking with her to the subway station. In the five minutes while they waited for their respective trains, Peggy had felt as though she could taste the possibility in the air; the inches between her and Steve seemingly shrinking by the minute until she’d felt intimately attuned to his every breath despite standing no closer than normal.

She’d thought Steve might kiss her just as his train pulled up to the platform, his eyes huge behind his glasses and his lips parted slightly, drawing her gaze, but he didn’t and she’s glad, really. They’re still in the amorphous phase; no definition, no shape. Before that she needs to decide if this is something she wants, how she wants it if she does, and how to ensure it doesn’t come crashing down around her head, if at all possible.

By Saturday afternoon though, all she’s managed to do it tie herself in knots so tight she can hardly move.

Peggy’s a decisive person by nature. She assesses the options, makes her decision, and acts. But there are so many variables here that she’s struggling to think properly. She’s only known Steve two months and predominantly in a work context. She’s met Bucky only once and, while Bucky isn’t _technically_ involved here, he _is_. If Bucky hadn’t said anything, she and Steve would have been the romantic equivalent of ships in the night, Peggy pulling away while Steve remained, by his own admission, oblivious. But she hardly knows Bucky at all. She has trouble believing this is genuine, or even possible. In short, despite the fact that she _wants_ this to happen, she’s not sure if it _should_.

So she goes over to Angie’s with two bottles of wine, swears her to secrecy, and spills the entire story in minute, awkward, detail.

“This is the best problem you have ever asked me to fix,” Angie says with glee once Peggy’s finished speaking.

“I’m not asking you to _fix_ this, I’m – ”

“Oh English, you are,” Angie interrupts, even going so far as at putting her forefinger against Peggy’s lips. “This is exactly what gay best friends are for.”

Angie Martinelli was the first friend Peggy made after moving to the States. She’s sassy, currently working as part of the ensemble of _Chicago_ on Broadway and low-key thrives on drama. She’d also hit on Peggy in front of Dan the first time they met, though she’ll staunchly deny this fact if it’s ever brought up.

“So,” she says, removing her finger from against Peggy’s lips and fixing her with a calculating stare. “To paraphrase: you like this guy who it turns out has a boyfriend. Said guy also likes you back, which you found out when the boyfriend sent him your way, practically gift-wrapped. And now you’re freaking out.”

Peggy pinches the bridge of her nose. “That is a very loose interpretation of events.”

“What other interpretation is there?” Angie leans forward, all faux-earnest. “Please. Tell me. I’m all ears.”

Of course, there isn’t really any other interpretation and that’s why she’s having so much trouble with this. That’s basically _exactly_ what happened.

“Right, so.” Angie sits back in her chair and tucks her feet under herself. “What’s your _actual_ problem here?”

Peggy can’t really put into words the churning confusion she’s been feeling since her conversation with Steve, so instead of saying anything even remotely intelligent she just blurts out, “It’s not _normal_.”

“Pshaw,” Angie waves her hand like that’s less than nothing. “If by ‘normal’ you mean ‘usual’ then I’m not normal, and I’m doing just fine.”

“Up to fifteen percent of the US identifies as queer,” Peggy points out, rather than stating the obvious fact that being queer and maybe being in a poly relationship aren’t necessarily equitable.

“That’s not statistically significant,” Angie shoots back, grinning the kind of grin that means she’s deliberately winding Peggy up just because she can.

“That’s not how statistics work!”

But just because she _knows_ it’s happening doesn’t mean she can stop it from happening.

“And ‘it’s not normal’ is not a valid reason,” Angie says. “Next!”

“What’s the likelihood of it even working out?”

“What’s the likelihood of any relationship actually working out?” Angie says pragmatically. “You don’t know until you try.”

“It’s _weird_.”

If she could stop sounding like a whiny teen any time soon, that would be great.

“See answer to question one above,” Angie replies. “C’mon, you know these aren’t really what you’re worried about. Spill.”

Peggy casts round helplessly, because she’s still not sure _why_ this is so difficult. “The logistics would be a nightmare.” And Christ, could she have come up with a less corporate way to talk about this?

Angie smiles, but overlooks the general stupidity of that statement. “That’s what conversation is for. That’s what negotiation is for. That is, if you think about it, what dating of any kind is for.”

Dating Dan was never as complicated as this has the potential to be. Not even that rocky two months when he was being a possessive weirdo and she was being a bitch is likely to even come close to the potential problems this could bring.

“Christ Ange,” she says, sinking into the couch cushions and staring at the ceiling. “What would Dan say if he could see me now?”

There’s a beat of silence and then Angie says, “There we go.”

“What?” Peggy sits up so fast her neck cracks and she winces.

“What _would_ Dan say if he could see you now?”

Peggy stares at Angie, completely lost.

“He’d probably say it wasn’t normal, that it was weird, and what’s the likelihood of it working out anyway. But – ” Angie holds up her hand, stalling Peggy’s automatic defence of her husband “ – _that doesn’t matter_.”

Angie leans forward and takes both Peggy’s hands in hers.

“I’m going to say something that’s a little cruel, but I think it’s something you need to hear, out loud and in this context.”

Angie pauses, and Peggy realises it’s because she’s waiting for Peggy’s consent to continue, so she nods.

“What Dan would think about your actions, here or anywhere else, does not matter,” Angie says clear and emphatic, “because Dan is not here. Whether Dan would be comfortable with this, whether he’d think it was weird or not, _does not matter_ because _he is not here_.”

Angie sweeps her thumbs across the back of her hands, and it’s only then that Peggy realises that she can hardly see Angie’s face for the tears threatening to fall.

“I understand that you’ve spent a long time carefully measuring your emotions, firstly because Dan was ill and after that because you were grieving, and that is completely valid.” Angie slips off her chair to kneel in front of the sofa. “I would never presume to tell you how you should deal with someone you love having cancer, or with their death,” she says, quieter now that they’re closer. “I understand that you loved him then and love him still, but he cannot be the reason you deny yourself things you want, and he cannot be the reason you don’t take chances to perhaps love someone else.”

Peggy lets out a single sob and Angie immediately kneels up to wrap her in a tight hug.

“Dan only ever wanted you to be happy Pegs,” she says, muffled by Peggy’s hair. “If this turns out to make you happy, then you’ve done right by Dan. And if it doesn’t work out? Well, then at least you were brave enough to try, and you’ll still have done right by Dan.”

And of course, Angie is right. This was the real issue all along. Taking the step to agree to whatever this thing with Steve might be – probably taking the step to agree to any potential relationship – feels like letting go of her last tangible connection to Dan. If she were the type to define herself in relation to a man then since Dan’s death she’s been Dan’s widow but, if she agrees to what Steve is potentially asking, that will be superseded by her becoming Steve’s girlfriend – and that’s without any of the other labels she might potentially acquire. Her connection to Dan won’t be gone, but it will be eclipsed. Hell, she’s young enough that her being a widow wouldn’t even cross most people’s minds.

“And what if I decide not to go for it?” she asks once she feels at least marginally steadier.

“Then that’s okay too.” Angie pulls back to look her in the face. “Though, your face lights up when you talk about this guy and it’s not like you’re even telling me anything interesting. That _definitely_ tells me you want to bang him like a screen door in a hurricane.”

Peggy rolls her eyes. “Classy as usual, Ange.”

“Oh, you know me,” Angie flips her hair over her shoulder and pouts, “always the epitome of class.”

Peggy snorts, but she can’t help the fond smile that creeps over her face. Angie has been such a rock for her for so many years, somehow always knowing exactly what Peggy needs and ready to drop what she’s doing to help. Peggy’s always felt slightly guilty that she’s had to pick up her pieces so often, but she’s never dared to say that out loud because she knows Angie will just tell her _that’s what gay best friends are for_ and probably hit her upside the head.

“You’re a queen among women, Angela Martinelli,” Peggy says instead of trying to articulate all the ways she’s grateful for Angie’s friendship. And then, on impulse, she leans forwards and kisses Angie directly on the mouth.

Angie’s answering grin is wide and delighted. “That’s a bit gay, English.”

“Oh fuck off,” Peggy replies. “See if I’m ever nice to you again.”

Angie’s grin gets, if possible, even wider. “Love you too, Pegs.”

 

Angie’s intervention, while doing a lot in terms of sorting out Peggy’s whirling thoughts, doesn’t actually make the decision of what to do any easier. Peggy thinks on it all through Sunday morning until she feels like she’s going to explode, then decides she needs a distraction and holes herself up in the café over the road to trawl through journals and government white papers for research-relevant information. However, as a distraction, it works possibly _too_ well, because come Monday morning she’s no closer to making a decision and only minutes away from seeing Steve again.

Only, she doesn’t actually see Steve.

She surreptitiously checks the entire building but he’s nowhere to be found, worry building that she’s somehow scared him away until she manages to corner Nakia and ask what’s up.

“Apparently one of the kids put Steve down as his emergency contact,” Nakia supplies. She’s wearing sneakers and an oversized t-shirt with leggings, so Peggy assumes she’s going to be spending time down on the basketball courts today, trying to get the older, warier kids to talk to her. “According to Sam, he got a call from NYPD at three this morning after they caught the kid shoplifting booze from a bodega. So he’s still at the precinct.”

It’s on the tip of her tongue to say, “I bet Bucky loved that,” but to be honest she’s not sure if that’s even a remotely true statement, and she has no idea if Nakia even knows who Bucky is. So instead Peggy thanks her and goes to find out what she’s supposed to be doing today from Claire, half anxious and half relieved that her decision has been postponed a little longer.

She spends the day with Malcolm, Claire, and Luke devising group activities aimed at exploring healthy interpersonal relationships among kids who may well have grown up in abusive households, while Sam and Melinda carry out the day’s scheduled therapy sessions and Misty and Nakia play basketball. Peggy knows Steve returns sometime around midday, but only because she overhears him gently admonishing someone called Mikey as he walks down the corridor. In fact, she’s ready to face the possibility that whatever _they_ are – or could be, or want – will be put off until tomorrow, which is why she’s shocked _again_ to be cornered in the staffroom _again_ as she’s preparing to leave.

Steve looks tired, as she’d expect from someone woken up at three in the morning, but he also looks _sharper,_ undiluted and focussed. His eyes are bright and unwavering, his pupils slightly dilated, and there’s the faintest blush gracing his sharp cheekbones.

It’s like a series of dominoes falling in Peggy’s head, one after the other, blooming into a picture that tells her that _of course_ she’s doing this, because the other option means not having Steve staring at her like he wants to eat her alive.

She has no idea if the building’s empty, but right at that moment she doesn’t care because Steve has covered the distance between them in three steps and is millimetres away from kissing her, head tipped up and eyes almost luminous.

“Yeah?” he breathes out, hot air ghosting across her lips.

Peggy doesn’t even reply properly, just cradles one hand around his waist and another around his neck and _pulls_ him to her, forcing him onto tiptoes to reach her mouth.

Steve kisses like someone who has wanted this for a very long time.

Peggy pulls him closer, traces his mouth with her tongue, and contemplates pushing him against the nearest available wall. He’s so small and hard against her, so perfectly formed. She could probably lift him if she tried, though it doesn’t take much to imagine his indignant expression at the idea. He palms her arse through her jeans and wedges a leg between her thighs. She can feel his interest, the shape of his dick through his slacks. It makes her dizzy, makes him gasp and, suddenly, Peggy realises the very obvious fact that this is not talking, they’re still at work, and she has no idea what Bucky’s thoughts are on what’s happening.

“Wait,” she manages, almost directly into Steve’s mouth. And then, “Steve – ”

Steve honest to god _growls_ as she pushes him away. It’s such a thrilling sound that she’s tempted to ignore good sense and just start kissing him at work again.

But no.

“Wait, Steve. What about – ?”

“Bucky’s okay with it,” he says in a rush, and something about the way he’s trying to draw her closer again makes her think that it’s Steve, not Bucky, who usually calls the shots in bed. “He – he knows where I am.”

“ _Steve_.”

Peggy gives her voice as much authority as she can muster, pulling Steve’s hands from her waist and pushing him back until there’s once again space between their bodies. He looks punch drunk, lips spit-slick and shiny, and for a brief moment Peggy thinks Bucky’s insane for letting this man out of his sight.

“Peggy,” he says, firmer, less hurried. “I promise it’s okay.”

Peggy raises a single eyebrow.

“He told me to let him know where I end up.” Steve, looking sheepish, runs a hand through his hair. “He told me to use condoms.”

Heat collects in the pan of her hips, shoots up her spine, diffuses across her skin. She feels dizzy with it, crawling with want, and she’s suddenly genuinely worried that her self-control won’t get them to an actual private room before she gives into the urge to relieve Steve of his shirt. In an effort to avoid that situation, Peggy clamps her hand around his wrist and tugs him out of the room, then gives him only the briefest amount of time to lock up and set the alarm before dragging him off to the subway station.

They go to hers, because Inwood-207 is way closer than Brooklyn, and the entire subway ride is a maelstrom of eye-fucking and standing too close. Peggy feels silly and wild and free, a little like being drunk and a little like she did when she agreed to sleep with Andy Malik at her Sixth Form prom.

They’re hardly through the door before Peggy pushes Steve up against the wall and slots her mouth over his. It’s strange, kissing someone shorter than her, but there’s also something thrilling about being able to cover Steve so completely with her own body.

Not that he lets her do it for long. She can already tell that she and Steve will be caught in a perpetual fight for dominance. But this time is not that, apparently. This time it’s something else.

“Hey,” Steve mumbles into her mouth, “hey, Pegs. Can I – hold on – ”

Peggy eventually relents, tearing her mouth from Steve’s to be faced once again with him looking wild and spit-slick. But also sheepish, and she moves away, worried she’s pushed too hard, let herself get lost too much in the moment.

“No, Pegs, it’s alright. I just…” Steve trails off. “Can I… ring Bucky?” Something like terror jerks in her chest. “It’s okay,” he says hurriedly, clearly seeing something of what she’s feeling on her face. “I just… I promised I’d say where I was.”

Peggy takes another step away. “Yeah. Yes, sure. Um. Kitchen’s through there?” She points at the relevant door. “Or, um, bathroom?” She points again.

“I promise it’s okay,” Steve says again, coming in close to brush a kiss against her lips before heading for the bathroom and closing the door behind him.

At a loss as to what to do now, Peggy toes off her shoes and hangs up her coat and bag before sitting on the couch and trying to ignore the low murmur of Steve’s voice coming from the bathroom. She’s forcibly reminded of every Hollywood romcom where one character poses ‘sexily’ while waiting for the other’s arrival and immediately snorts and gets up to fetch a glass of water. She’s not a romcom love interest and she has no interest in acting like one.

She eyes the takeout menus stuck to the fridge, and then the minced beef on the counter that she’d taken out this morning to defrost. Cooking, she decides, will not be happening tonight. She moves the mince to the fridge.

“Hey.”

Steve’s voice makes her jump and she turns to find him standing in the doorway, tension she wasn’t aware he was carrying now absent from the line of his shoulders.

“Everything okay?”

Steve grins wide. “Yeah, everything’s great.”

She gives him a speculative once over before meeting his gaze head on with the tiniest of smirks playing at her mouth.

“Good,” she says, “‘cause I want to ride you.”

And, before Steve can do much more than let out a breathy ‘oh’, she drags him by the hand into her bedroom and pushes him onto the bed, climbing on after him to kiss him, hard, as she wrestles with his many layered shirts.

Steve Rogers naked is almost exactly as Peggy had pictured him: bones pressing close, stomach dipping _in_ slightly, hipbones so prominent she can wrap her hands around them. But none of these things diminish him. He’s unselfconscious, sprawled out beneath her with the bravado of a much bigger man. But then, Steve Rogers always seems to have more personality than can be contained in his skinny, five foot five frame.

“Christ, Steve,” Peggy mutters almost absentmindedly as she stares down at him. “You’re gorgeous.”

She captures his mouth in a kiss and time becomes elastic as they lose themselves in the taste of each other. But when they finally pull apart to catch their breath, Steve rolls his eyes and begins pulling at her shirt.

“I’m not gorgeous, I’m _naked_. And _you’re_ not.”

It’s a valid point. Peggy climbs off his lap just long enough to shuck her jeans and underwear, straddling him again before she removes her shirt because the separation already feels too long and she doesn’t want him to get any ideas about _moving_. Steve’s hands reach up to cup her breasts almost automatically, and the gentle swipe of his thumbs over her nipples makes her grind down hard.

“Fucking hell, Peg.” Steve’s voice has dropped low, rumbling through his narrow chest. “Roll over. Wanna taste you.”

Steve makes to push her over with the unconscious air of a man used to being listened to, but Peggy holds firm, sitting more heavily on his lap and splaying her hands out over his sternum.

“No,” she says, firm and low, and his eyes shoot wide. “No. You, Steve Rogers, are going to lie there, and I’m going to blow you, and then I’m going to ride you, and you’re not allowed to come before me.”

Peggy can see the indignation in his eyes, the stubbornness and the desire to fight back, but she raises an eyebrow at him and he simmers down. It’s going to be so fun, taking charge of him. She can tell it’s not his usual role, but equally she can tell he’s not _opposed_ , just unused to it and naturally the type of person to fight all the way regardless.

She bites his hipbones on the way down and he arches into her, hissing out profanities, eyes wide with want. He reaches for her, gets as far as half tangling one hand in her hair before she pins him to the mattress by his wrists.

“Behave,” she admonishes and then, before he can make any move to complain, she steadies his slightly-larger-than-expected dick in her hand and sucks down as much as she can in one go.

Steve bucks up automatically and she has to hurriedly press down on his hips to avoid choking as his skinny thighs bracket her head. He veers between slurred praise and unintelligible profanity, his hands drifting towards her head only to retreat again when he remembers her command, and the surge of want it elicits in Peggy zings up her spine, tightens her nipples, pools low in her gut. She pulls out every trick she can ever remember working for previous partners – well, mostly Dan, but she doesn’t really want to think about him too much right now – bringing him to the edge only to back off again.

After a while Steve forgets himself, fists a hand in her hair and bucks, and the answering tightness of her grip around his wrist makes him whine. It’s a dance, a fight; Steve trying to dictate the pace and Peggy unerringly thwarting his efforts until he’s sweaty and biting his lips in an effort not to beg.

He’s beautiful, and Peggy wants him in her right now.

Angie had given her condoms as a ‘leaving present’ on Saturday. At the time Peggy wanted to throw them at her in indignation, but now she’s just incredibly grateful because she’s honestly not sure there are any other condoms in this house at all right now.

Steve might have some though, she suddenly realises. Bucky had _told him to use condoms_.

But Steve is almost too out of it to notice her grabbing one, so he’s definitely too out of it to find any he’s brought himself. He’s _almost_ too out of it to notice her rolling it on his dick but he’s definitely playing attention by the time she’s easing herself onto him, the stretch almost too much because it’s been such a long time. He tries to buck up, hands grasping her hips, fingers digging into her arse, but the angle’s all wrong. He has no leverage.

Peggy rolls her hips.

“Make me come,” she says, breathless and exhilarated, “then you can move.”

It takes almost nothing, she’s so worked up. Orgasm ripples through her like waves in a pool, reaching from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes, so much better than with a toy. She’s so relaxed in its wake that she lets Steve roll them over, lets him position her legs to his liking and thrust with abandon.

“Fuck,” he says, and, “Oh my God,” and, “ _Peggy,_ ” and he stretches up to kiss her slack mouth, nip at her neck. He sucks bruises on her breasts, fits his hands to their weight, all the while not losing rhythm. After the amount of teasing she put him though, she’s surprised how long he lasts, but it still doesn’t take long. He smothers a wordless moan between her breasts, his breath hot and damp.

He’s flushed down to his nipples when he finally sits up enough to meet her eyes, and he looks so pleased with himself, so honestly giddy, that she almost laughs out loud.

“Bet you’ve got another one in you,” he says, his breath still coming in pants and a wicked gleam in his eyes.

“Don’t you dare,” she shoots back, still feeling shaky and blissed out, but he grins and ignores her, sinking his fingers into her where she’s hot and wet and incredibly oversensitive. She arches and tries to shy away, everything feeling almost more than she can bear, but Steve’s relentless, determined to wring pleasure from her aching body. It takes almost no time at all for him to make her come again. Peggy feels wrung out in the aftermath, attempting to scowl up at a smug-looking Steve but probably only looking about as threatening as an angry kitten.

“You absolute bastard,” Peggy manages weakly. “Oh my God.”

Steve smooths his hands over her stomach, up her sides, around her breasts as his grin steals over his face, elated and happy. And suddenly Peggy’s overwhelmed, caught between laughter and tears.

She’s slept with someone, and it wasn’t Dan. She’s slept with someone and it was _good_. She feels guilty, and irritated that she feels guilty, and so happy she could burst, and to her horror she can feel her eyes fill with tears.

Steve’s gaze softens and he kisses her gently on the mouth.

“Closest trash can?” he asks, removing and tying off the condom. She gestures weakly in the general direction of the bin. Steve busies himself cleaning up before returning to kneel by her side, once again running his hands gently over her body. She thinks he’s going to say something profound, something to mark what’s just occurred here. He definitely looks as if he’s going to. But, instead of anything like that, he grins, and fits his hands to her breasts, and says, “Can I just take this moment to be kinda crass and say I’ve really missed boobs?”

Laughter wins out against tears and Peggy wraps her arms around Steve’s skinny shoulders, pressing him into her breasts, just because she can. Because Steve Rogers is in her bed and everything is okay.

 

Steve stays the night that night, and they go to work together the next morning, carefully ensuring they arrive through the doors a good ten minutes apart. And, though he doesn’t stay the night after, over the span of two months his visits become increasingly frequent until he’s spending three or four nights a week at her place.

The whole thing is surprisingly easy; there’s a comfort to hanging out with Steve, to having a relationship with Steve. Unlike some guys she remembers dating, there’s no artifice. He’s as genuine after two months of being together as he was the very first time they met. She learns his likes and dislikes in bed, listens to impassioned speeches on the stupidity of student loans, is given blow by blow accounts of his dealings with CPS, with the NYPD, with Bucky on a deadline. Steve is interesting and enthusiastic and smart. He’s not patronising, he listens when she speaks, and he lets her fight her own battles, whether they’re with pickle jars or the dickwad at the Walmart checkout. Sure, he’s got a short fuse, and likes pineapple on pizza, and cannot be converted to the many virtues of a good cup of tea, but those are minor things in the vast landscape of Steve’s personality. In fact, after two months of dating, Peggy can really only find one issue in her relationship with him.

She’d never really understood what it would feel like to have someone you could maybe, possibly, very probably love, spending half the week in someone else’s bed. And she honestly cannot understand why Bucky ever suggested it happen.

It nags at her, and the longer she goes without mentioning it to Steve, the more it plays on her mind. Especially since Steve continues to call Bucky every evening he stays at hers, a gesture that isn’t always returned when Steve’s at home with Bucky, regardless of all the texts they exchange.

Peggy’s generally a person of action. She’s got to where she is now, and has got through many awful life experiences, largely through knuckle-down problem solving and a Get Shit Done attitude. So when the feeling doesn’t fade, and it gets to the point where she’s worrying about it rather than sleeping, she decides it’s time to speak to Steve.

“Can I ask you something?” she says over dinner, the next evening they’re together.

Steve peers owlishly at her through his glasses.

“I want to meet Bucky again.”

It’s not a question, but that’s not the point.

Steve tips his head to one side, a move so similar to the one she saw Bucky pull that one time they met that it must be one of those gestures learned through osmosis. Couple’s gestures, though who learned it from whom she can’t tell.

“Why?”

He doesn’t sound defensive, which she had been worrying about, only curious.

“I just – ”

She’s not sure how to articulate it. She feels somehow off balance; not in the dark exactly, but like she’s missing critical information. She knows that there are other people who can carry on perfectly well in relationships like this without ever meeting the third person, but Peggy’s starting to realise she’s not one of them, especially seeing as she has, in fact, met Bucky once before. Somehow, he’s too much of who Steve is for her to ignore him. But it’s more than that too. She feels – although only sometimes – like a secret and, above all else, that’s a feeling she particularly dislikes.

“I feel a little like the Other Woman,” she says eventually. “And I know I’m not, but… it’s still here.”

Steve looks like he wants to refute that statement or reassure her of her place in this relationship, but thankfully he does neither of these things.

“I’m sorry if I’ve ever made you feel that way,” he says after a moment, putting down his cutlery to lend weight to his statement, the words formal like he’s trying to make sure he says exactly the right thing. “That was never my intention.” He meets her eyes then, something like apprehension threading through his usual confidence. “And sure, I’ll speak to him, we’ll organise something.”

Even just his reassurance eases something within her.

 

A neutral setting would have been ideal for this but, considering the topics being covered, completely impractical. So instead, one week later, Peggy finds herself heading down to Brooklyn and Steve and Bucky’s apartment. She can honestly say that, for all her outward appearance of calm over the past week, she’s nervous, but the journey on the A train is long enough to let the ebb and flow of her anxiety settle into steely resolve and, by the time she arrives at Steve’s place, she’s calm and steady.

She’s greeted at the door by Steve, who ushers her into exactly the kind of home she expects from two people who’ve been together since high school and, while it’s honestly tidier than she expected a house with two guys in it to be, there’s a baseline mess that comforts her. It looks like a home. There’s a jumble of shoes by the door and scuffmarks on the walls. Canvasses line the hallway and photographs are tucked into the mirror frames.

Steve takes her coat and offers her tea, which he must have gone out and bought because he doesn’t drink it and she knows that Bucky doesn’t either. Then he leads her into the front room, where Bucky is sitting on a swivel chair in front of a desk littered with paper.

“Hello again, Peggy,” he says, standing and kissing her on the cheek.

Bucky is, if possible, even more attractive than she remembers, and has clearly decided today calls for a little effort as he’s wearing smart jeans and a dress shirt with the left sleeve pinned up by a row of badges saying ‘Gimme a hand’.

Peggy snorts and, at Bucky’s questioning look, gestures to his sleeve.

“I like your badges.”

Bucky looks down, surprised, then grins. “Thanks. Might as well have fun with it.”

He gestures to the sofa, indicating she should sit, and returns to his place at the desk just as Steve comes back, carrying tea for her and what she assumes is coffee for himself and Bucky. He fusses, handing out drinks and making sure everyone is comfortable, until there’s nothing more to fuss about. At which point he sits awkwardly on the sofa beside her, close but not touching.

He’s holding himself as if he’s expecting something bad to happen. As if he’s bracing for her and Bucky to suddenly have a pissing contest, to demand exclusivity, or promises, or something equally ridiculous. She supposes this must be nerve-wracking for Steve too, albeit in a different way than for Peggy. In fact, out of the three of them, Bucky seems the most comfortable.

Peggy takes a sip of her tea – perfectly serviceable, though clearly not Yorkshire – and wonders how to start, before deciding to throw caution to the wind and just come out with it.

“Why are you okay with this?” She gestures between her and Steve.

It’s obvious the question is for Bucky, but she still hears Steve inhale and shift in his seat as if he’s thinking of answering. All that happens, though, is Bucky tilting his head to one side, like he had done that first time in Billie Jean’s, considering her in a way that’s almost unnerving.

“Okay with what?”

Peggy raises an eyebrow at him, because to her it seems pretty fucking obvious ‘what’.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Obviously, I know ‘what’, but say it anyway. Let’s have absolutely no confusion.”

“Why are you okay with letting your boyfriend see someone else?”

“And by ‘see’ you mean ‘have sex and develop emotional intimacy with’.”

Peggy turns to Steve. “Is he always this irritating?”

Irritating isn’t quite the word she’s looking for here, but it’s the best fit. Peggy would rather Bucky be pedantic _after_ she’s found her footing.

“Yeah, unfortunately.” Steve sounds fond, but he gives Bucky a look that says _get on with it_ regardless.

Steve definitely calls the shots in bed between the two of them.

“Okay, fine,” Bucky says, placing his coffee on the table behind him and fixing Peggy with an unrelenting look. “Why am I okay with letting Steve develop an intimate sexual relationship with someone while he’s still with me. That’s what you’re asking, right?”

Peggy nods because, yeah, that’s what she’s asking.

“Steve told you we’ve been dating since we were fifteen, right?”

Peggy nods again.

“Did he tell you we took a break in college?”

She shakes her head, bemused. It’s not like she doesn’t know that even the best and most stable relationships can have rough patches, but all the same something about Steve and Bucky seems so solid that the idea is almost foreign.

Bucky’s gaze drifts to Steve, and when Peggy follows she finds Steve looking stuck somewhere between awkward and unbelievably fond.

“Neither of us had slept with anyone else before college.” Peggy turns back to Bucky at the sound of his voice. “I knew I was gay, he knew he was bi, but it had always been only us. But, y’know, college; time of bad choices and experimentation, right?”

Peggy smiles a slightly rueful smile and Bucky grins.

“Or a very expensive marriage service, I guess.”

Peggy can’t help but smile wider at that, only slightly surprised that Bucky knows how she and Dan met. Steve, on the other hand, lets out a strangled, “ _Bucky!_ ” Bucky waves him away.

“So, if you can imagine, eighteen-year-old me and eighteen-year-old Stevie here, we sit down and have a weirdly serious discussion about maybe trying other things. Like, in Steve’s case, vagina.”

“Jesus _Christ_.”

If Bucky’s plan was to rile Steve, it’s working pretty well.

“I never really minded,” Bucky continues, as if Steve hasn’t spoken, “because I knew Steve didn’t love me any less. And I was never worried what would happen if he were to fall for someone else either because…” Bucky trails off, takes a breath. “I dunno, it just never did. People would talk about jealousy and I just… never got it. You’re with someone, you trust them. If you don’t trust them, you’re not really with them, right?”

That line of thinking doesn’t really work for Peggy, so she just shrugs.

“Well, anyway. He dated a girl for about three months. Sharon, remember her?” Peggy sees Steve nod. “I think in the end, she found it weird. Or she thought Steve would dump me for her eventually. I don’t really know. But when he didn’t, she left. It wasn’t, like, awful, but it happened.”

“There was also Donny,” Steve butts in.

Bucky laughs. “You and Donny never dated,” he shoots back. “Donny was a gym rat, had a hundred pounds on me, and was subby as fuck. You just got off on bossing him around.”

One glance at Steve is enough to tell her that he’s bright red right now. Peggy has no idea what this Donny looked like, but she gets a small thrill from the idea of Steve topping someone (apparently) so much bigger than both her and Bucky. Plus: _vindication_. She knew Steve called the shots, which makes literally every time he’s handed over control to her even more delicious.

“Aw bless,” she coos, slightly patronising as she pats Steve on the cheek. “You’re blushing.”

Steve blushes harder.

“It stopped,” Bucky cuts in pointedly, though he’s now eyeing Steve and Peggy with an interest she can’t parse, “when we moved out of halls and into a truly horrible one-bed apartment in Queens, because he never found anyone actually worth the hassle.” Bucky shrugs. “And then you turned up.”

Peggy doesn’t miss the fact that Bucky’s saying ‘he’, as if Bucky wasn’t looking for someone else; that it was only Steve.

“What about you?” she asks.

“What about me?”

“Did you never want anyone else?”

Bucky shrugs, as if the question was expected, and Peggy is amazed at how at ease with himself he is. “Steve works that way. I don’t work that way.”

Peggy holds his gaze for a moment, trying to gauge his honesty, but he stares back at her, steady and sure, so she nods once in acceptance.

“And then you got comfortable,” she says to Steve, his comment when they first admitted their feelings to each other suddenly coming to mind.

“Yeah.” Steve’s smile is soft, though the blush is still there.

There’s a brief silence.

“So, to answer your question,” Bucky says, circling the conversation back to the original point, “I let this happen because Steve Rogers is a two-hundred-pound personality with a heart big enough to love more than one person and I like seeing him happy. Plus, I don’t own him, or control him, and I don’t want to.”

The words are like a balm to some agitated part of Peggy’s mind that she hadn’t realised was bothering her as much as it had been. Something in his matter of fact delivery, in the fond looks he sent Steve every time he couldn’t keep quiet, strikes her as deeply honest in a way few people bother to be. It’s good, to know Steve has someone else so deeply invested in his happiness.  

“How about you?” Bucky asks.

“Huh?”

“Why are you okay with this?”

Peggy stares at him, shocked. At no point did she even consider the idea that any of her questions might be turned back on her. She’s completely unprepared, foundering for a moment before she tries to pull be best answer she can out of her head.

“I… I guess because… ”

She trails off and frowns. Gives the question real thought.

Why _is_ she okay with this? Why did she agree to this, considering it’s so far removed from any relationship she’s used to navigating? On a very basic level, it’s because she’s very attracted to Steve Rogers and wants to sleep with him. But she’s been attracted to people before and not done anything about it for reasons less dramatic than the fact that they were already in a relationship.

“Because,” she starts again, with more confidence, “Steve is honest and kind, and you gave me a choice I didn’t know was even on the table. And I figured if you can be that brave, then so can I.”

Then she grins and, deciding this has been enough serious conversation for the time being, says, “Plus, he said he’d missed boobs, and far be it for me to deny him that.”

Bucky lets out a bark of surprised, delighted laughter while beside her Steve groans and covers his face.

“I hate you both,” he mumbles into his hands.

“No, you don’t,” Bucky shoots back, his face alight with joy. “You love us.” The simple way Bucky says that, so matter of fact, pulls Peggy up short. It could be a friendly, platonic statement but… what if it’s not? However, Bucky seems unaware of what he’s said and just laughs again. “Oh my God, of course you said that, you absolute idiot. It’s been years! Are boobs really even that great?”

Steve flips him the bird and Peggy can’t help but laugh too, all remaining tension leaving her. She laughs at Bucky’s joy, at Steve’s petulance which is slowly losing a fight with his smile. She can see how they fit together like this. Not that she hadn’t seen it before but somehow this showcases it better, maybe because this is their home. There’s a long familiarity which actually reminds Peggy a little of her parents, which is a slightly alarming thing to think considering she’s sleeping with Steve. But the comparison is apt and, in a way, not unsurprising. They’ve been together for fifteen years.

Peggy’s slightly jealous. She didn’t even get to _know_ Dan for fifteen years, let alone be in a relationship with him for that long.

“Okay,” Bucky says, as their bickering dies down. “I’m gonna give you guys a minute – ”

“You don’t need to – ”

“Hush, Steve,” Peggy cuts in, and Bucky sends her a look that’s half grateful and half surprised when Steve actually complies.

“I’m gonna give you guys a minute,” Bucky repeats. “Put something on, order some take-out. I’m not cooking tonight.”

He gives them both a considering once-over and then leaves without further ado. It feels a little too like she’s just kicked Bucky out of his own front room, but she’s also grateful to have a moment to collect herself.

“You okay?” Steve asks after a moment, scooting closer on the sofa until he can place a hand on her forearm.

“Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“Did that… was that what you needed to know?”

She looks up at that, meeting his eyes. He looks apprehensive, peering at her through his bulky hipster glasses like he’s worried she’s going to drop some massive bombshell on him.

“Yeah,” she says again. “It was.”

She’s not yet sure how, but the past half hour or so has eased the formless anxiety that was building regarding the dynamics of their relationship. Maybe it’s simply the confirmation that Bucky does in fact know and is in fact okay with it, the fact that he agreed to meet her in the first place and was pleasant and open and funny when they did. She knows, now, that she’s not a secret.

Steve nods, once, and Peggy can see his anxiety drain away too.

“Okay, good.” He gives her hand a quick squeeze and then stands. “I’m just going to, um, check on Bucky. If that’s okay?”

Peggy rolls her eyes. As if she’s going to fight _that_. “Not at all. I’ll just snoop on your photos.”  She gestures to the framed images dotted around the room.

Not that she manages to do much snooping before both guys return. But she has now at least seen that teenage Steve was, if possibly, even smaller and skinnier than he is now. Bucky, of course, was a teen heartthrob, even with the questionable haircuts he was rocking.

They end up ordering pizza and there’s a brief squabble about what to watch on TV, before Peggy accidentally comes across a channel showing highlights of Premiership Rugby and spends ten minutes trying to explain the rules to a baffled Steve and Bucky before the programme ends and they settle on Brooklyn Nine Nine.

Peggy is honestly surprised how easy it is. She’d wanted to meet Bucky, sure, but mostly to assuage her own fears. There was no particular idea to try and befriend him necessarily. She’d wanted to know she could meet him and be civil, but she hadn’t really thought about anything further than that. But all her initial assessments about Bucky from that fateful meeting in Billie Jean’s so long ago have been proven correct. He’s funny. He’s sarcastic and intelligent and kind. He’s exactly the sort of person she can see herself becoming proper friends with.

It feels a little strange – she’s making friends with her boyfriend’s boyfriend – but it’s easy. He trash talks her choices of pizza toppings, makes armless jokes she’s not sure she can laugh at yet, and is skilled at heading off Steve’s rants at the pass. Bucky and Steve complement each other almost to the point of her feeling superfluous, but both of them notice when they’re getting too involved with each other, both of them make an effort to include her in their random asides.

“… and then Steve, if you can believe it, goes _off_ at him, lecturing him on _respect_ and _decency_ – never mind that Steve just called him a Neanderthal just two minutes prior – and suddenly it’s _my_ job – ” Bucky waves his stump for emphasis “ – to get him out of the bar before he gets punched.”

“That is _not what happened_.”

“That is _exactly_ what happened, Steven Grant.” Bucky points an accusing finger at him. “Peggy, don’t believe a word out of this guy’s mouth, he’s not to be trusted.”

And Peggy laughs, because it’s just so _easy_.

 

Once again, the dynamics of Peggy’s relationship changes. Steve still comes over for about half the week, but now when he calls Bucky in the evenings Peggy speaks to him too, calling out a hello or correcting Steve’s how’s-your-day anecdotes. Steve calls her from his and Bucky’s place more often too until, one day, when Steve apparently gets a bit too drunk watching baseball one weekend, instead of not calling her at all Bucky simply calls in his place and they talk about how Steve is a lightweight, and Peggy’s visit to Angie, and Bucky’s short stories.

“It’s good, I know it’s good, but something is missing and it’s driving me _insane_.” Even through the small screen of her phone, Peggy can see Bucky’s frustration.

“What does Steve think?” Peggy’s fairly confident in her assessment that Bucky shares his writing with Steve.

“He’s no help,” Bucky says dismissively and Peggy hears Steve protest drunkenly somewhere out of frame. “He’s just ‘it’s great, Buck’ and ‘they’re idiots, Buck.’ He knows shit about narrative structure.”

“Rude,” she hears Steve mumble. Both she and Bucky smile at each other at that.

“I could…” Peggy trails off, unsure if she’s overstepping here. “I did a proofreading and copyediting course while doing my masters,” she says eventually. Bucky can always just say no, after all. “Mostly academic stuff, but some fiction. I could look over it for you?”

“Yeah?” Bucky looks incredibly grateful at the offer. Does he not have friends who write? “That would be awesome. I thought about getting someone to look over it, but I kinda want to know if it’s shit first.”

“‘S’not shit,” Steve says, too loud as he fails to pitch his voice correctly.

“Thanks buddy,” Bucky says absentmindedly, then, “So yeah, if you wouldn’t mind. What do you charge?”

It’s on the tip of her tongue to tell him that it’s nothing, that she’ll do it for free, but she knows pride and she knows about professional distance, so instead of that she says, “How about I do two for free and then if you want more doing we can figure it out.”

“But – ” Bucky starts, but Peggy cuts him off.

“James,” she learnt his real name recently, though she’s never used it before. It seems right to use it now. It means he’ll listen. “Two free. Email them to me tonight.”

Bucky looks slightly taken aback, and for a moment Peggy’s worried that she’s definitely overstepped her bounds this time, but all he does is swallow and say, “Yeah, okay,” in a voice slightly rougher than before.

“Good,” she says, possibly a little too teacher-like. She tries to soften her voice. “Now, is Steve drunk ‘cause they won or they lost? Also, who is ‘they’?”

They move on, and Steve at least tries to join the conversation, and it’s as pleasant an evening as Peggy’s had in a while, chatting to Bucky while Steve drunk-mumbles out of frame and tries to get them to pay attention to him.

She reckons she can call Bucky a friend now.

Steve has also reached the point where he’s finally comfortable about bringing Bucky up in casual conversation with her. Obviously, he talked about Bucky before, but there was often an undercurrent of _is it okay that I talk about him_ that she’s not even sure _Steve_ was aware of, because he really can be oblivious sometimes. But now she gets occasional updates on Bucky’s work, stuff he and Bucky have done together while Peggy was elsewhere, and stories from when they were younger. Anecdotes and preferences and titbits of information dropped so casually into conversation that Peggy knows Steve’s stopped being wary, even subconsciously.

It’s nice. But more than that, it’s comfortable. So comfortable, in fact, that she’s almost slipped up and told her parents at least three times, and Luis and Anna once. She caught herself in time, for which she’s grateful, but more because she feels this isn’t something that can just be sprung on someone rather than any lingering shame. That being said, telling Luis and Anna is not on her list of things she’s looking forward to doing. If she felt like sleeping with Steve that first time was somehow letting Dan go, then telling Luis and Anna is on a whole other level and, while she’s fully intending to keep them both in her life for as long as they’ll let her, she’s not itching to drop this particular truth bomb on them yet. So she’ll test the waters with her parents first, before telling her in-laws.

Just, not yet.

 

“Oh my God, Peggy!” Her phone says Steve but it’s Bucky’s voice she hears, excitement laced through every word. “Peggy, come the fuck over right now, we’re _celebrating_.”

“Why? What happened?”

“I’m getting published!” The words come out in a rush, almost trip over themselves. “Fucking _published_!”

“Oh my God, Bucky!” She’s immediately off the sofa, jamming her feet into her boots and reaching for her jacket and MetroCard. She fumbles and nearly drops her phone. “Where? _When_? Which story?”

“Stor _ies_ , Peg! Two of them!” Peggy’s almost out the door before she remembers she needs her house keys. “ _Three Hands Holding On_ and _Teeth_.” That pulls her up short. Those were the two stories she proofread for him a little while back. He’d asked for advice, if he should change anything, and she’d helped as best she could. Obviously it fucking _worked_. “ _Three Hands_ is going into the November issue of _Uncanny Magazine_ and _Teeth_ is – oh my God Peggy I’m so excited – _Teeth_ is going into a fucking VanderMeer anthology. Tor Books is doing it and it’s going to be published _in the UK as well_ , I am _freaking out_.”

“Told you you’re amazing!” she hears Steve yell in the background.

“Oh my God.” She sounds like a broken record, but she has nothing more substantial to say. “ _Oh my God_ , Bucky. Congratulations!”

Peggy grabs her keys and heads for the door, slamming it shut and fumbling with the lock before all but power walking to the subway station.

“This is incredible! I’m on my way and I’m bringing wine.” There’s a bodega on the corner of Steve and Bucky’s street, she’ll get it there. “When did you find out?”

“Today! Two emails within an hour of each other. I’d hardly recovered from the first one before the second one arrived.” He pauses, and there’s a note of hesitancy in his voice when he speaks again. “I, um, I tried ringing about an hour ago but you didn’t pick up.”

About an hour ago, Peggy had been glaring some douchebag away from the last free seat on the Bx12, coming back from having lunch with her friend Colleen in the Bronx. Peggy had thought London buses were annoying, but they’ve got nothing on New York buses. 

“Sorry about that, I was fighting a guy for a seat on the bus.”

“Ah, you’re forgiven then,” he replies easily. “How long will you be?”

“I’m just getting into Inwood,” she says, jogging down the stairs. “I’ll be forty-five minutes-ish? Oh shit, train.” She manages to sneak through the doors just before they close. “I’ll see you then, yeah? And _congrats_ , Bucky. This is amazing.”

“Thanks, Peggy.”

She makes it to Steve and Bucky’s place – remembering the wine – in just under an hour (thanks to an old lady in front of her at the bodega who wanted to count out $8.95 in small change) and is greeted at the door by Bucky, who’s grinning almost alarmingly.

Peggy might have squealed a bit before hugging him. “Oh my God, _congratulations!_ This is so amazing!”

Bucky laughs as he hugs back. “All down to you.”

“Bullshit,” Peggy shoots back, pulling far enough away to level him with a supremely unimpressed look. “Did I write them? No I fucking well did not. I just told you off for overuse of commas. This is all you, Barnes.”

Bucky doesn’t correct her, just pulls her into the front room where Steve is waiting with two bottles of red to go with the white Peggy brought. Steve’s practically glowing, he’s so happy, and he wraps them both in a hug before Peggy even gets a chance to take off her coat.

“Get off me,” Peggy laughs, managing to pry herself away from Steve long enough to remove her coat and put down the wine, though not before kissing him hello. “You’re a menace. Go pour me some wine.”

Steve pinches her side, but does as she asks.

“And you,” she points at Bucky. “I want to see these emails.”

Bucky looks sort of surprised, like he wasn’t expecting that, but he gamely pulls his phone out and starts scrolling through his emails. Peggy makes herself comfortable on the sofa, accepting the wine Steve brings her and indicating that they both should sit. Doubtless, Steve has already seen these emails, but equally he probably has no problem with reading how great his boyfriend is.

“That’s the _Uncanny Magazine_ one,” Bucky says, handing his phone over to Peggy so he can pick up his wine. He sounds apprehensive, like Peggy’s opinion is important, and he waits patiently as she reads the whole thing, Steve sat on his left with his chin hooked over Bucky’s shoulder.

“‘Lyrical turn of phrase’,” Peggy quotes. “‘A startling and effective use of second person narrative’ – holy shit Bucky, this is great. ‘Clever subversion of the Lost in Space trope.’ I’m glad they noticed that. Oh, this is great!” She wraps her free arm around Bucky’s shoulders and squeezes. “Show me the other one.”

Dutifully, Bucky takes his phone back – handing Steve his wine this time – and searches through until he finds the other email.

“It’s actually from Jeff VanderMeer,” Steve says from Bucky’s other side.

“What?” Peggy scrolls down the email until she can see the indecipherable scrawl that she can only tell is Jeff VanderMeer’s signature because his name is printed neatly underneath. “Bucky, you _lead with that_.” Not that Peggy has any _real_ idea who the guy is, but she’s listened to Bucky talk enough about sci-fi to know he’s A Big Deal.

“He’s one of the editors.” Bucky’s trying to play it down, but he’s not doing a very good job.

“Editors have assistants,” Steve points out.

“They probably just attach his name to the emails. He won’t have, like, _read_ it.”

“I beg to differ,” Peggy says. “He puts his name to the book, you can bet he’s read the stories. Also listen to _this_ : ‘unsettling and atmospheric’, ‘the very best kind of weird fiction’, ‘a story that feels bigger than the word count implies’. This is _brilliant_.”

She hugs Bucky again, this time reaching far enough to latch onto Steve too.

“You’re gonna be in a book,” Steve says to Bucky. “You’re gonna be in a book, and I’m gonna get you to sign it, and then I’m gonna sell it for millions for dollars when you hit it big.”

Bucky snorts, like that’s ridiculous, but Peggy’s not that sure. _Three Hands Holding On_ was a legitimately moving story and _Teeth_ honestly scared the crap out of her. Bucky could really go somewhere with this.

“No, you are, Bucky,” Steve says, as if this is an uncontroversial truth. “You’re going to be epic.”

“You’re so dramatic,” Bucky says with a roll of his eyes.

“Take the compliment, Barnes,” Peggy cuts in before Steve can get worked up. “You’re going to be getting a lot more soon.”

A comfortable silence descends. Peggy drinks her wine and looks over at Steve, tucked up against Bucky’s other side. He gives her a wide smile before tipping his head towards Bucky, indicating she should look at him.

Bucky looks like he’s trying to process too much information at once, his gaze fixed somewhere left of the TV. He hasn’t even noticed that Steve’s still holding his wine. He _definitely_ hasn’t noticed Steve’s been sneakily drinking it.

“I’m going to be published,” he says, wonder in his tone. “Stories _I’ve written_ are going to be _published_.”

“Yeah, Buck.” Steve’s voice is all tender warmth.

“Holy fucking _shit_.” And suddenly Bucky’s laughing almost hysterically, and Peggy finds herself pressed up against his side so tight she can hardly move. She doesn’t mind though, because his joy is so infectious, spilling out of him in giggles and hiccups. “Thirteen-year-old me is so happy right now. Dream job, dream guy. Dream guy’s girlfriend.” He scrunches his face up comically at that, then he shrugs and laughs again, pulling Steve close to kiss him on the mouth.

They hardly ever do that in front of Peggy, though she’s not sure why. It’s hot though, and she’s just about to say so when Bucky turns and kisses her straight on the mouth.

And freezes.

He was aiming for the cheek. She knows this because only a split second ago that was exactly where her cheek was. But instead he got her mouth and now…

She can’t help but notice that his lips are really soft.

“Sorry,” Bucky breathes out, before Peggy can even gear up to laughing it off for the awkward mistake it is. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry, that was so – sorry. I was, that was supposed to be a…” He’s floundering, a fierce blush creeping over his face.

“It’s okay,” Peggy says in a rush, changing tack. “It’s fine. No harm done.”

Something about the utter distress on his face makes Peggy want to reach out and comfort him but she can’t quite bring herself to, for no good reason she can pinpoint, other than the fact that she’s fairly sure that if she did he’d flinch away.

“I’m – snacks,” Bucky says suddenly, clearly changing tack almost as soon as he starts speaking. He sends Steve a look that Peggy can’t see and then stands and walks purposefully away.

Steve’s gaze is fixed on his retreating back. “Bucky?”

But Bucky acts as if he hasn’t heard and disappears into the kitchen.

 

The awkward kiss is tactfully not mentioned when Bucky emerges from the kitchen a little later with Doritos and forced cheer, and it continues to be not mentioned for the rest of the evening, which ends up being really fun. In fact, that awkward kiss isn’t brought up at all in the following two weeks, which would be absolutely fine if Peggy could _stop thinking about it_.

It’s weird. Peggy’s always been aware that Bucky is attractive, in the same way as she’s aware that Steve is short and skinny, the A train is a bitch, and her accent makes her stand out at work. It’s known: Bucky’s attractive, the sky is blue, the Pope is Catholic. The fact that Bucky is attractive is not really the point here though. Or, not really. Awkward kisses happen sometimes and they normally just get laughed off. Dan once went for Angie’s cheek, just as Bucky had gone for Peggy’s, and had got her square on the mouth when she moved to say something. But all _Angie_ had done was fake swoon while Dan turned slightly red and then they’d all laughed and forgotten about it.

Bucky had turned red and then _run away_ , which is so unlike him Peggy can’t help but feel it’s important in some way.

But also, he’s attractive.

Peggy’s thought about what he might look like shirtless (or naked). Of course she has. He’s dating Steve and she’s not going to lie and say the idea of them together isn’t hot. And she knows what Steve looks like naked, so she can imagine the rest. But it’s slightly like imagining a celebrity naked; it’s harmless because nothing is going to happen. But it’s also not, because she feels as though she gets echoes of actual attraction from Steve – that she’s seeing Bucky though Steve’s eyes and finding him attractive because Steve loves him so much. Plus, they’re actually friends, so Peggy knows he’s kind and intelligent and fun to be around.

She doesn’t try to explain it to Angie when she sees her for their usual Monday Meetup. She doesn’t really try and explain it to anyone. She’s not sure why, but she has a feeling it’s got something to do with something Bucky said a while ago: _Steve works that way. I don’t work that way._

Peggy is coming to the slow realisation that _she_ could, perhaps, work ‘that way’. Maybe not quite like Steve, not quite to that level of emotional investment, but it’s becoming increasingly clear to her that she’s more comfortable with open relationships than she previously thought. Which, considering she’s currently dating Steve who’s in a relationship with someone else, is kind of obvious, but nevertheless in that scenario she’s still – _technically_ – monogamous. _She’s_ only seeing one person.

She’s realising that she’d be okay if that changed.

 _Oh God_ , Peggy thinks, _Angie’s right. I’m in a threesome._

Well, sort of.

She’s so distracted by this train of thought that she’s only half paying attention to the NYU alumni function she attends that Saturday afternoon. She manages to carry intelligent conversation with a handful of her old professors, but she also drinks way too much complementary wine, laughing too loudly at niche academic jokes and looking around surreptitiously as if the people around her can see that she’s been imagining what it would be like to be caught between her boyfriend and _his_ boyfriend.

It ends up being a reasonably fun night though and Peggy’s just shy of drunk by the time she makes her way home. She dumps her bag by the door and meanders into her bedroom without taking off her coat or shoes, and then spends an inordinate amount of time sitting on her bed, staring at her phone.

She and Steve slept together last Tuesday. She can still see in her mind’s eye the exact moment surrender had swept across his face when he realised he was not getting his way.

Peggy can also still feel the phantom pressure of Bucky’s lips against hers, two weeks later.

“I’m being weird, aren’t I?” she says to Dan, looking over at the photo on her bedside table.

She half expects to hear Dan’s voice in her head, telling her that he just wants her to be happy, or that he loves her no matter what. But instead she suddenly remembers a conversation they’d had shortly after getting married. She can’t remember what she’d been talking about exactly, but she’d mentioned that she was weird and Dan’s reply had been, “I like that you’re weird. It means that you’re normal.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

He’d shrugged. “Sure it does. Now budge up, Mrs Sousa.”

He’d tried to nudge her over to her side of the bed, but she wouldn’t move.

“Don’t call me that,” she’d replied, because Peggy was never going to be the type of woman to take her husband’s name and he’d known that from the start. And then she’d grinned and curled her hand around the back of his neck. “Say: ‘Hey, Ms Carter’.”

And he’d kissed her, hard and all encompassing, and said, “Hey, Ms Carter.”

And she’d laughed and kissed him back, because it’s important to get yourself a man who understands your Beyoncé references.

 _I like that you’re weird. It means that you’re normal._ It sounds like something Steve would say.

This is Dutch courage, she knows, or lunacy. But regardless, she opens a message to Steve. He makes her feel safe. _They both_ make her feel safe. Make her feel that even if she gets this wrong, or it’s not reciprocated or it doesn’t fit, they won’t think any less of her.

It’s half eleven at night and she probably shouldn’t do this, but she does it anyway.

 **[23:42]**  
_I kinda want to kiss your boyfriend_  
_Just a little_  
_What should I do_

She goes to bed.

 

Peggy doesn’t get woken by the knock on her door, because it’s almost midday and she’s been awake for hours, but it does actually force her to get out of bed. She doesn’t have a hangover as such, but she feels delicate and lazy and it’s not like she has to be anywhere today. She was going to watch some TV, maybe read a book. So, who the fuck is turning up on a Sunday morning to disturb her? And why aren’t they in bed like civilised people? It’d better not be Jehovah’s Witnesses. Or Mormons.

It’s not. It’s Steve, looking determined, and Bucky, looking mildly confused.

There’s a brief moment where she doesn’t understand why either of them should be here, stood outside her door all the way in Inwood, rather than being down in Brooklyn like they’re supposed to be. Then message she’d send last night floats across her mind. She’s not sure how she’d forgotten it until now.

“Oh,” she says, her mind wiped clean of anything more intelligent.

“Can we come in?” Steve asks.

Peggy moves aside in lieu of actually replying. She doesn’t really know what to say.

She stands at the door for a moment, staring out unseeingly at the street while Steve gently pulls Bucky into her front room. She’s not sure what Past Peggy was hoping to achieve with that message, but she’s pretty resentful that Past Peggy has just dropped her in this shit. She’s not even _dressed._

Peggy shuts the door, wrapping herself tighter in the soft white robe she’s wearing, before taking a deep breath and following them. She can do this. She can _do_ this.

“It has come to my attention,” Steve says, as soon as she enters the front room, “that I’ve become privy to some important information. And, in the interest of causing the least amount of distress to all parties involved, and because I feel I now know you both well enough, I’m just going to disclose this information.”

He sounds like a lawyer. It would make Peggy smile if she felt more prepared for what she knows is about to happen next.

“Peggy sent me a message last night,” Steve says to Bucky, who still looks slightly bemused. Peggy’s heart, on the other hand, wants to beat out of her chest. “And, last Tuesday I had a very specific conversation with Bucky.” Bucky now looks alarmed, though it’s all in the eyes because his face is suddenly locked down so hard he could be carved from wax. “Each of you knows what you said to me, so if you stop me now, this goes no further.”

A strange sort of anxious calm descends on Peggy; it’s the knowledge that it doesn’t matter what she says, because this will happen regardless. Maybe not necessarily now, or even soon, but with his words Steve has set in motion a chain of events that will end up with this information coming out whatever she or Bucky says now. It’s inevitable. To be honest, she’s not really sure Steve’s thought this through at all, which is _so like him_ ; barrelling on like the world will rearrange itself to fit around him. In fact, it’s only the sure-fire knowledge that Steve _does_ in fact know them both very well at this point that’s keeping her nerves in check. His instincts are good, mostly. It’s his execution that leaves much to be desired.

Peggy doesn’t say anything, because the wheels are in motion and trying to stop it would be worse than letting it just play out. Next to Steve, Bucky doesn’t speak either, though Peggy can’t be sure if that’s because he’s really okay with this or if he’s worried what will happen if he were to open his mouth.

“Peggy wants to kiss you,” Steve says into the ensuing silence, looking at Bucky. Something akin to panic slides under Peggy’s skin at the words, despite the fact that she was expecting them. Bucky, on the other hand, looks as though he’s been slapped. “‘Just a little’. And,” Steve turns to Peggy, “Bucky wants you to boss him around, and maybe let him watch you boss _me_ around, while _I_ – ” Steve continues before Peggy can even think to open her mouth, though to say what, she’s not sure, because _that_ at least was unexpected “ – I want this possibility to at least be acknowledged, so it’ll stop hanging like a millstone around our necks.”

There’s a long silence in which Peggy fails to see at what point this became ‘a millstone’. Though to be fair, maybe it’s much more visible when you’re caught in the middle like Steve is.

“I’d also like to see the two hottest people I know make out,” Steve says after a beat, “because I can be shallow when I want to be.”

This time the silence is only broken by the sound of Bucky sitting down heavily on the sofa.

“Never,” Peggy says, after a deep, fortifying breath, “become a couple’s therapist, Steve. You’d be fucking shit at it.”

Steve expression turns stubborn. “I’m trying to _help_.”

“Trying being the operative word here, Steve.”

Steve opens his mouth to argue, but Peggy cuts him off. “No, Steve. Sit down and be quiet a second.”

Steve sits. Bucky’s eyes, she notices, flick between her and Steve as he does. He looks _interested_ , but he also looks ready to bolt.

Peggy is the kind of person to review every option and then power on through. Steve is the kind of person to completely disregard things he doesn’t like and power on through regardless. Bucky can definitely power on through too, but she gets the feeling that he has to freak out a little first.

She hesitates, before moving to sit by Bucky’s side.

“I’m still gay,” Bucky says, before Peggy can work out what to lead with.

“I didn’t think that had changed,” she replies carefully.

“I just…”

Bucky trails off and Peggy waits a second before speaking again.

“Nothing will happen if you don’t want it to.”

She hears Steve shift as if he’s readying to say something, but Peggy lifts a warning finger in his direction and he simmers down again.

“You don’t mind?” Bucky asks.

Peggy smiles at him. “Bucky, I’m straight and you’re attractive. I would have no problem kissing you, or sleeping with you, or even bossing you around, if that’s what you want and if that’s what we’re comfortable with.”

Bucky pulls a face; a soft, helpless look, like he’s not sure what he thinks.

“Hey,” Peggy says, “you want to hear something random and maybe vaguely inappropriate for the moment, but also relevant?”

Bucky nods warily, and Peggy looks over to Steve to check his reaction before continuing.

“My husband Dan,” she says, because if she’s going to make this awkward, she’s going all out, “he once said to me, ‘I like that you’re weird. It means that you’re normal’.”

There’s another brief silence as Steve and Bucky decide how to deal with the sudden inclusion of Peggy’s dead husband in the conversation.

Then Bucky snorts. “That makes no sense.”

“That’s what I said, at the time.” Peggy smiles at him. “But it also does, doesn’t it?”

She waits a moment and, when Bucky doesn’t say anything, she asks, “What would you like to do?”

She watches as Bucky’s gaze flicks across her face as he thinks and she watches as his shoulders drop, imperceptibly, as he comes to some decision in his head. He still looks apprehensive, but it’s first-kiss-nerves kind of apprehensive, so Peggy’s not worried.

Gentle as anything, Bucky reaches up to brush her hair out from where it’s tucked behind her ear, his fingertips just grazing her cheekbone. As a move it’s smooth as fuck and it makes Peggy’s breath catch, just a little.

“Okay?” he asks, turning her head a little more towards him, his fingers still so gentle on her jaw.

“Yeah,” she replies softly.

Bucky smiles and kisses her on the mouth, deliberate this time, and, holy shit, Bucky Barnes is a good kisser. He’s gentle and tender, with an undercurrent of hesitancy, of surrender, that makes Peggy bite down on his lower lip because she just _knows_ it’ll make him groan. It’s _so good_. She shifts closer, mindful of the fact that with his hand still gently cupping her jaw Bucky has no way of steadying himself, and curls her hand around his shoulder. Then she tips her head and opens her mouth.

Bucky groans again, low in his throat, and opens under her like a flower.

Peggy hears movement behind her and pulls just far enough away from Bucky’s mouth to say, “Don’t you dare move, Steve Rogers.”

“But I can’t see!”

She’s too close to Bucky’s face for it to be anything other than out of focus, but even this close she can see the pleased look on his face. He’d planned that, the fucker. Peggy grins.

“This is punishment for your terrible therapy skills earlier,” she replies, still not turning around. “What’s he doing?” she asks Bucky.

Bucky tilts just far enough that he can see Steve over Peggy’s shoulder.

“Sulking,” he says.

“I’m not sulking!”

“Moping, then.”

Peggy doesn’t know what Steve does in response to that, but whatever it is, it makes Bucky laugh out loud. It’s such a joyous sound that Peggy has to lean in and kiss him again.

“Hey,” she almost whispers in his mouth. “You okay?”

Bucky nods and Peggy kisses him again.

“You have soft lips,” Peggy says, gently rubbing her mouth against his because apparently that’s a thing she does now.

Bucky touches her jaw again, then her hair, then the collar of her robe.

“You have soft… everything,” Bucky mumbles back, before blushing faintly.

Peggy laughs properly at that. Bucky sounds so strangely shy and it’s so endearing. But more than that; he looks happy and curious and interested, but it’s clear he doesn’t _want_. There’s no lust in his face, just appreciation. It’s strange, but somehow comforting.

“Shall we move this elsewhere?”

“ _Please_ ,” Steve says emphatically from behind her, even though she was technically speaking to Bucky.

Bucky rolls his eyes and nods.

“C’mon then, Rogers,” she says, standing and pulling Bucky up before leading them both to her bedroom.

The curtains in her room are closed, but it’s coming up on midday so the room is pretty bright regardless. She pulls the duvet off the bed and self-consciously kicks a stray shoe out of the way, but when she turns to look at Steve and Bucky she realises that she needn’t have bothered, because Steve has Bucky pushed up against the wall and is kissing him like he’s trying to climb into Bucky mouth.

Peggy sits down on the edge of her bed with a thump.

Everything about the sight is hot: the way Bucky’s fingers dig into Steve’s skinny arse, the way Steve is stood on tiptoes and Bucky’s still bent down, the way Steve’s hand is fisted in Bucky’s hair.

The way Steve is so obviously in charge.

But then, Steve’s not in charge of _her_.

Peggy sits up straighter on her bed and deliberately unties her robe. She’s wearing a pale gold, silk nightie, because Drunk Peggy had liked how it felt. Peggy’s grateful for that decision now because combined with her hair and her robe, she knows the overall look is _fantastic_. She arranges her hair over her shoulder, crosses her legs and points her toes and, in the most commanding tone she can manage, says, “ _Boys_.”

The noise they make as they part is obscene; a slick, wet sound at odds with the brightness of the room. Bucky looks lust-drunk now, lips spit slick and shiny. Steve looks annoyed to be interrupted until he actually looks over at her.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he breathes.

“I’m feeling a little left out here.” Steve makes to touch her, but she holds up her hand. “You’re wearing too many clothes.” She holds Steve’s gaze until he nods in understanding.

They undress each other slowly, with gentle hands and lingering touches, Bucky completely focussed on Steve while Steve’s gaze flickers between the two of them in an effort, she knows, to ensure both their comfort. Steve’s body is intimately familiar to her, the dips by his hipbones and the notches of his spine, and in comparison Bucky looms, all lean muscle and strong thighs. He’s deft at removing Steve’s clothing, even one handed, and Peggy notices when Steve helps him out, almost unconsciously, this entire dance as easy as breathing.

“Can I touch now?” Steve asks once they’re naked, his voice a rumble too large for his frame.

Peggy holds his gaze.

Agreeing to his request now is handing over control and they both know it. She weighs up her options. Her being in charge is probably what Bucky wants; Steve being in charge is probably what Bucky needs – familiarity in the midst of a new situation. There’s always next time, after all.

God, she hopes there’s a next time.

Peggy nods, regal as a queen, and there’s a spark of gratitude in Steve’s eyes as he tangles his fingers with Bucky’s, pulling him closer to the bed and positioning him where he wants, kneeling on the mattress at her side.

“Just watch, yeah?” he says to Bucky, and Bucky nods, seemingly dazed.

With gentle hands, Steve lays her back against her pillows, stroking her hair from her face and pushing her robe from her shoulders. He runs his hands down her neck, across the silk covering her breasts, and down, steady and warm, until he reaches the hem of her nightie.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous, Peg.”

A tentative touch to her collarbone forces her to tear her gaze away from Steve’s artist fingers. Bucky traces the neckline of her nightie over the tops of her breasts, fingers almost not touching her skin. Peggy’s nipples tighten at the sensation and she arches, just slightly, into the touch.

“Here,” Steve whispers, apparently unconcerned that Bucky failed to follow instruction. “Here, Buck.”

Steve removes her clothes in tender but efficient movements, every touch a caress. He then takes Bucky’s hand and cups it around her right breast.

“Like this,” he says, swiping his thumb across her nipple in demonstration and sending electric shocks down her spine. “Just here.”

Bucky’s gaze is fixed on their intertwined hands and he follows Steve’s instructions unquestioningly. His hands are bigger than Steve’s – his _everything_ is bigger than Steve’s, something Peggy now knows for sure – and he may not have ever slept with a woman before, but he clearly knows how to wring pleasure from the human body, Steve providing little more than guidance. Steve guides Bucky’s hand down her stomach, cups her mound in Bucky’s palm. Shows him where to touch and when to press in and when to pull back. She tries not to push, to demand, but Bucky’s fingers against her clit makes her arch her spine, his fingers inside her makes her spread her legs.

Bucky seems enraptured by her responses. He watches her face constantly for affirmation and – once Steve removes his hands to roam over her body, pinching her nipples and skimming her sides – he experiments, crooking his fingers, bushing her clit, all the while taking note of what works for her and what doesn’t. Somewhere deep in her hindbrain Peggy makes a mental note: _Bucky likes to be good._

Then Steve stops Bucky when it’s clear Peggy’s getting to close and she almost cries in frustration. The grin Steve gives her in return can only be described as shit-eating as he moves to kiss her until she’s calmed down to his satisfaction. Then he lets Bucky start everything all over again.

It’s incredible, pleasure rushing though her in waves, and both Steve and Bucky are so gentle and considerate, until they’re not. Until, by some unseen signal from Steve, Bucky presses _hard_ on her clit, wringing pleasure from her through unrelenting pressure until she’s crying out and tightening around his fingers. Bucky works her through it, continuing to circling her clit as Peggy continues to let him, and all the while Steve presses kisses to her slack mouth. And, when it’s finally too much, when Peggy’s oversensitive and unable to take any more, she knocks Bucky’s hand away only for Steve to catch hold and lick him clean.

It’s almost enough to get her going again.

They bracket her then, Bucky to her right and Steve on her left with her head against her shoulder, their erections lying neglected on her thighs. Steve’s skin is flushed and smooth under her hand and Bucky’ breath is coming in warm gusts into the hollow of her neck. She wants to tuck him into her arms too, to hold him close and run her hands over flushed skin, but she’s not sure if he’d be okay with that yet, and she doesn’t want to push. She places her left hand on her breast instead, shivering at the sensation.

Steve and Bucky need no guidance, their hands reaching for each other over her body, taking each other’s dicks in hand and drawing pleasure from each other with practiced ease. It’s wonderful to watch, the similarities and the differences; how Steve swears and mutters filth into her skin while Bucky is almost silent, his only sounds cut off moans and hitched breaths. She kneads absently at her breast, not enough to go anywhere, but enough to maintain the buzz, as they both come over her stomach, Bucky whining high in his throat as Steve spits out an emphatic, “ _Fuck_.”

They peel away from her in stages, Steve climbing out of bed to get a washcloth from the bathroom (his usual routine) while Bucky rolls onto his back and narrowly avoids ending up on the floor. Peggy catches his hand, ostensibly to keep him on the bed but now she’s got him she sees no reason not to imitate Steve, sucking Bucky’s fingers clean while he watches with wide, dark eyes.

“You okay?” she asks, her voice hardly loud enough to bridge the gap between them.

Bucky nods. “Yeah,” he says, “Yeah, but I – ” he gestures vaguely, hand still trapped in Peggy’s grip.

Peggy smiles. “First door on the left,” she says, letting Bucky escape to the bathroom.

She’s not left alone for long, Steve returning to wipe her clean with careful hands before rearranging her tired limbs to his satisfaction and curling against her back. Bucky, it seems, has been left with the job of getting the duvet off the floor, which he does with a fond roll of the eyes, climbing in behind Steve when he’s done.

“You okay?” she asks, tapping Steve’s hand where it’s splayed low across her belly. She’s tired, and she wants to drift off, but checking in is still important.

“So okay,” Steve mumbles into her shoulder.

“Bucky?” she asks again, just to be sure.

“Yeah,” he replies, sliding his hand along Steve’s arm until their fingers are intertwined against her skin. “You?”

Apparently Bucky is better at this than Steve.

Peggy can just about see Dan’s face in the photo on her bedside table, grinning his happy grin, oblivious of everything that’s waiting for him in the years to come. But then, the same can be said of her, wrapped around him in that photo. There’s so much heartache in that Peggy’s future, and she’s never going to love someone the way she loved Dan. But that doesn’t mean she’s never going to love again.

Maybe Dan wouldn’t have understood this, but he’d be pleased that she’s happy.

“Yeah,” she says, squeezing Steve and Bucky’s hands. “Yeah, I’m good.”

Peggy has practically drifted off when Bucky speaks again.

“You’ll be bossier next time, right?”

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact! This was supposed to be 9k long. Also I have no idea how Jeff and Ann VanderMeer go about making their anthologies, but it's likely not like this at all.
> 
> Also, because she's so beautiful I could cry: [Peggy (or Hayley Atwell) in gold and white](http://cloud--atlas.tumblr.com/post/181957749705/hayley-atwell).


End file.
